Endless Silence
by ElleSmith
Summary: Written for the Endless Reflection challenge. There are impossible monsters living in plain sight. Voices whisper in endless silence. Up in the Martian sky, the moons Phobos and Deimos see all like a pair of never-blinking eyes. In the red Martian wilderness below, a man is lost inside his past, unable to forget... refusing to let go.
1. Part 1: Madness

I am taking a break this weekend from posting One Week and Paradox to post my submission. I will be back with more of my other fics next weekend.

Elle

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**This story was written for the Endless Reflection challenge**** to commemorate Gundam Wing's 20****th**** Anniversary****.**

**Thank you for your consideration.**

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**Disclaimer:** GUNDAM WING is a Registered Trademark of Bandai, Sunrise, Sotsu Agency &amp; TV Asahi. This work of fiction was written for non-profitable purposes. Non-Gundam Wing related names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

**Warning:** I'd hate to give away any spoilers, so I'll just rate this story T: suitable for teens, 13 years and older.

**Reflecting on:** Episodes 13-15 in the anime.

**Author's Note:** Happy 20th Anniversary Gundam Wing! 20 years... Sweet Jesus... I got to get me a life! But what kind of life would it be without Heero Yuy and Duo Maxwell to occupy my wandering mind?!

The idea for this story came to me while on vacation in Germany/Switzerland/France. I had a lot of downtime while we drove from one place to another and as I looked out at the beautiful green landscape, I was suddenly flooded with words and this tale practically weaved itself as the miles passed me by. I hope you'll enjoy.

Here's to the next 20 years!

Elle

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**Endless Silence**

**Part 1: Madness**

It was the year MC-0012 in humanity's new calendar dubbed "Mars Century"; an era that began with the colonization and terraforming of planet Mars. Currently, there was only one densely populated area on the otherwise desolate planet, along with a few remote research stations scattered across the red globe. Small settlements residing within artificial atmospheric domes were spread along the reddish plains of the Dao Vallis – a large outflow channel running southwestward from the slopes of the dormant Hadriacus Mons volcano and into the vast Hellas Planitia region of Mars. The massive canyon extended for about 750 miles long and about 500 miles wide in diameter. It was spliced by a grid of roads, all linked to the massive MC-28 [[1]] freeway running through the center of the large valley. The MC-28 was the only controlled-access highway connecting the smaller towns to the Colony I site at the center of Dao Vallis, where the first Martian settlement was formed close to two decades ago. Lately, in honor of the fifteen consecutive years of peace since the war between Earth and the Colonies ended, it was decided to christen the large settlement "Relena City" [[2]].

Weather conditions on Mars were far from human-friendly, but the Dao Vallis valley was about 3 miles deep into the Hellas Planitia surface and hence provided some protection from surface-radiation, solar-winds and the harsh weather raging above. Also, since the atmospheric pressure on the Martian surface was about 0.6% of Earth's mean sea level pressure, Dao Villas, situated in the depths of Hellas Planitia, provided a more bearable air-pressure level inside the Martian Grand Canyon, allowing colonization inside the valley. Nonetheless, conditions outside the artificial biospheres were inhospitable to say the least. Aside from extreme temperatures, harsh weather ruled the sandy red plains. Water-vapor-clouds and dust-storms were common on the channel floor. Driving conditions on the MC-28 were rough even on a good day. Strong winds blew through the canyon, creating a powerful wind-tunnel effect in its narrower sections that could easily blow a vehicle off the road as if it were mere tumbleweed. As the sun set beyond the immense channel walls, thick white fog obscured the road and temperatures dropped below zero. Sometimes frost would form on the road, creating a dangerous and slippery sheet of black-ice. Those were far from ideal weather conditions for any driver, let alone a trucker. Bad weather was a trucker's worst enemy.

As twilight engulfed Dao Vallis in a shroud of hazy bluish-red light, a massive big-rig barreled down the desolate highway; eighteen wheels of thundering mastodon streaking past the reddish landscape with a deafening roar. The large 18-wheeler carried a lengthy flatbed behind it; it was loaded with bulky cargo and covered by thick black vinyl tarps soiled with red dust. The cab, however, was sufficiently shielded from the elements. The deep-blue colored cabin was built for strength and speed, resembling the front portion of an airplane or a space shuttle. Its thick metal panels and windows were designed to withstand the unforgiving Martian atmosphere and keep adequate air-pressure and oxygen levels inside the cab.

Seated behind the wheel of the spacecraft-like truck, was a bearded young man, dressed in worn-out blue jeans and a dirty white T-shirt stretching over a taut torso and muscular arms. He wore a battered gray trucker-cap over his head, the brim tilted down slightly to cloak his face in shadows. A pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses obscured his eyes, reflecting the endless stretch of highway and red desert ahead. His full beard was thick, a few good inches long and rough; an untamed forest of dark-brown stubble that has been allowed to grow wild over a substantial amount of time on all available areas of the face and neck, including the moustache, chin, sideburns, and cheeks. It looked like the kind of beard a man stranded on a deserted island would grow. The young man reached a hand to scratch under his hairy chin, but then a gush of sudden side-wind rocked the truck and he hurried to hold onto the wheel tightly, struggling to steady the big-rig before it ran off the road.

Driving a swaying "Skateboard" on the MC-28 in such windy conditions was considered suicide by most. Trucking was one of the deadliest jobs in Dao Vallis due to the harsh weather and driving conditions, as well as other dangerous drivers along the road: aggressive, hyperactive cars that truckers called "Bunny Hoppers". They cut trucks off without warning, sneaking up from their blind spots in a dangerous gamble that would shave a few lousy minutes off their ETA or cost them their lives. Unexpected hazards were part of the job. A trucker always had to be on the lookout and read the road for potential menaces.

Fear of accidents loomed large in a trucker's mind. One spent most of one's time trying to avoid becoming roadkill. Bad weather could exaggerate the slightest of mistakes, causing many rookies as well as seasoned truckers to end their ride in disaster. Truck-wrecks were the main highway-terror on the MC-28 and a major hindrance, since there were no alternative roads to take when the highway was blocked due to an accident or a deadly pileups. In fact, truck-fatalities were one of the major causes of death on Mars. That was why most truck drivers had a "Big Brother" type computer on board, monitoring their every move. There was no room for error and no shortcuts. One could not cheat the computer; safety came first. Aside from monitoring speed, traffic violations, noting performance of daily check-ups of engine and tires, as well as recording the drive for later reference, the computer also made sure drivers abide the Department of Transpiration's regulations, such as being behind the wheel no more than 11 hours a day and on duty no more than 14 hours per day.

"WARNING," the computer announced in a monotone female voice, "YOU HAVE. _ONE._ MORE HOUR BEFORE YOU REACH YOUR DAILY DRIVING HOUR LIMIT. PLEASE CONTINUE TO THE NEAREST TRUCK-STOP," it requested. The driver ignored it. He didn't even glimpse at the computer console screen in the center of the dashboard.

There were only two full-service truck-stops on the MC-28 – south and north of Relena City. They weren't exactly the _Ritz_, but they were the only place to get some proper rest while on the road. They were filthy and pricey and crawling with Lot Lizards – ladies of the night offering paid companionship to lonely truckers living on the road. A trip back and forth the MC-28 covered about 1,500 miles, which took about two and a half days if you had to make a shipment to and fro Dao Villas. One could not avoid those loathsome truck-stops.

The wind howled loudly around the massive blue truck as it drove swiftly down the freeway; its loud whistling pierced the air inside the cabin. The engine roared; a deafening whirring and rattling creating a clamor that rocked the cab. Everything trembled noisily as the truck bounced speedily over potholes and bumps on the road. The unbearable upheaval of sounds went unnoticed by the bearded trucker. The noise didn't bother him. In his ears, there was only silence. It was a thick, all-consuming quietness that coated his ears no matter how hectic the ambience; a roaring hum vibrating in his eardrums, drowning out everything else.

"WARNING," The computer female voice spoke up again, beeping; "YOU HAVE LESS THAN. _ONE_. HOUR LEFT TO YOU DAILY DRIVE-TIME. PLEASE PULL OVER AT THE NEAREST REST-STOP."

The driver paid the warning no heed; he didn't hear it, nor did he divert his eyes towards the words flashing on the dashboard display screen. He was focused solely on the road, watching the endless highway through his mirrored sunglasses. Miles upon miles of road reflected on his aviator shades, streaking past the lenses like rolls of film. Just miles and miles of gray road surrounded by a red desert and dark-red canyon walls in the horizon. Hazy rosy-red skies stretched overhead; though, in the vicinity of the setting sun, the sky was blue. Sunrises and sunsets on Mars were the exact opposite of Earth; the shades were all backwards, but no less beautiful. Twilight lasted a long time after the sun had set because of the dust high in Mars's atmosphere. Most of the time, the dust obscured the stars, scattering their light across the reddish heavens. The moons Phobos and Deimos could only be seen fleetingly at some point during the night, but Earth and its moon shone brightly in the skies as a double star: the Moon visible alongside the bright blue Earth as a fainter companion up in the pinkish-blue sky.

The eerie red-blue skies reflected in the trucker's sunglasses, a dull and never-changing image, until a fresh sight invaded the mirrored view: a bright yellow neon sign on top of a tall pole looming up ahead – a Truck Stop sign beckoning weary drivers into its fold. Below the tall road-sign was a rectangular glass structure with a semicircular cross-section and rounded roof, like a greenhouse – an artificial biosphere. The trucker turned off the road and headed towards the Quonset-dome.

Once parked inside, the young man jumped out of his truck and headed towards a small diner adjacent to a gas station – the only establishment residing within the large truck-stop-dome. The place was bustling with people, truckers mostly: vulgar, drunk and obnoxious. Music was playing at an uncomfortable volume over the loud cluttering of utensils and dishes. People were laughing, chatting and calling out to the waitresses. The noisy hustle and bustle would have bombarded anyone's ears upon entering, but the trucker heard none of it. His world was filled with silence. He stood by the door for a moment, taking it all in. The chaotic scene reflected in his mirrored sunglasses as he ran his eyes over the crowded diner, but not a sound brushed his deaf ears. Scratching his unpleasantly thick beard, he walked towards the service counter and took a seat on one of the floor-mounted stools. He took off his baseball cap and sunglasses, revealing a messy head of unruly chocolate-brown hair framing his bearded face and falling over his deep Prussian blue eyes. He ran his hand through his sweat-soaked bangs which were matted over his moist brow and ruffled them out of his eyes. He placed his hat and sunglasses on the counter, his bloodshot eyes searching for a waitress.

A young woman approached him from behind the bar, holding a coffee pot in her hand. She spoke to him, her lips moving but forming no sound; none that he could hear. He focused his dark-blue eyes on her mouth, watching it move as she spoke. He stared at her dully, reading her lips: _'What can I get you?'_ she was asking.

His lips, surrounded by his thick full beard, parted slowly. He hesitated a moment before finding his voice:

"Coffee," he whispered, though he couldn't hear his own voice. The word coming out of his mouth felt like a whisper – he remembered what whispering felt like – and he could only hope that he didn't speak the word out too loud for his lack of hearing. The waitress didn't seem to find his speech abnormal, so after testing his voice he quietly added: "Grilled cheese," keeping the same low tone as before.

_'Coming right up,'_ the young waitress's lips formed the words and she smiled, pouring him a hot cup of coffee.

Most people never realized that he couldn't hear them. He read their lips perfectly and spoke normally, avoiding suspicion. It was better this way; he hated how people acted around him when they knew of his disability, like his boss for example. Even though DOT regulations allowed deaf drivers to operate commercial motor vehicles such as large trucks [[3]], it didn't mean that they couldn't be real assholes about it. He preferred to keep the amount of people who knew about his impaired hearing to a bare minimum.

Sitting hunched over the counter, keeping to himself, the young trucker drank his coffee in peace. The diner was full of life, but he could not hear a sound; he preferred it that way. Silence was his sanctuary; a foothold of sanity. He focused on his beverage while waiting for his meal, paying no attention to the busy room around him. He closed his eyes, concentrating on the bitter hot beverage touching his tongue as he sipped it slowly. He might have lost his hearing, but he had gained a new appreciation for the little things in life; they became so much more enjoyable after the loss of one of his five senses.

[HEERO] A voice whispered ever so quietly, but he deliberately ignored it.

[THEY'RE WATCHING YOU] It kept talking anyway. Heero grimaced, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He kept his eyes closed and tried to focus on his beverage.

{THEY KNOW YOU'RE HERE} A second voice joined the first.

He raised the coffee to his lips, trying to pretend like he couldn't hear them.

[THEY'RE COMING FOR YOU] The first voice warned again.

{THEY'RE GOING TO GET YOU} The second agreed.

(THEY'RE HERE!) A third voice joined in, screaming urgently.

Heero ignored all three of them. No one was going to get him. The voices weren't real. He knew they weren't real because he had pierced his own ears in a fit of madness a few years back, trying to make the voices stop, but they didn't. They never did. He had lost his hearing but the voices still kept on whispering absurdities in his ears. They weren't real, but they were inescapable. They whispered endlessly in his ears until he was forced to believe in their actuality. His reason surrendered to them more often than not. There was someone out there; always. Why else would people fall into the habit of talking to themselves out loud even when they knew no one was around? Because no one was ever alone. Something was always there... listening; creatures living in perfect hiding until no one was even aware they existed. So how would one know? If such creatures have evolved perfect hiding skills, escaping everyone's visual perception, then one couldn't know they were there... unless one listened. Heero listened, all the time. He could hear them. He knew they were there, lurking in plain sight. No one believed him though. Why would anyone believe what the deaf man heard?

_Paranoid-schizophrenia_, the doctors had said. _Mentally unfit for duty_, the bastards determined and released him from his position at Preventer. After ten years of service all he got was a kick in the caboose and an honorable discharge with a generous psyche pension. Fuck them. There was nothing honorable about losing his mind and he didn't want their fucking pity money!

More and more whispers crept up on him like prowling wolves; a choir of muttering voices rising from the deep. They whispered irrelevant nothings in his ears, seeping in through every crack, flooding his sentiments with poisonous misconceptions; pure impetus for his crumbling sanity. The voices whispered all at once, shrieking and laughing, taunting and demeaning; their incoherent jabbering drowning out all reason. They knew he was the only one in the universe capable of hearing them, so they all came to him. Every monster in the universe was constantly banging at his door, begging him to let it in.

He closed his eyes tightly, trying to ignore them, but when he struggled they only got louder out of spite. They were relentless and he was so tired of fighting them off. His eyes clenched, he tried to will them all away, but the unbearable clamor still pounded in his ears. Panting shallowly in distress, he opened his eyes and looked around the busy diner, his eyes moving frantically around the room, searching for impossible monsters hiding in plain sight. People were talking, laughing... minding their own business. They couldn't hear the tumult of voices shrilling in his ears, just like he couldn't hear those people. He could only hear the voices shouting out warnings and promises of pain, making no sense but raising panicky havoc nonetheless:

[YOU HAVE TO GET OUT OF HERE!]

{THEY'RE GOING TO GET YOU!}

(RUN! RUN! RUN!)

Heero jumped off the bar-stool, pushing away abruptly from the service-counter. He made a dash to the restroom and locked himself in one of the red stalls, shaking. He shoved a desperate hand into his jeans pocket and pulled out a small zip-lock bag; it was full of white powder. His quivering fingers fumbled with the zip-lock, trying to unfasten it without dropping the bag and spilling its precious content. The overwhelming chorus of fretful voices was still rattling on in his ears.

[THERE'S NO ESCAPE] They taunted.

{THERE'S NOWHERE TO RUN!}

Ignoring them, he held the bag over the metallic toilet-paper box, shaking badly, and spilled a wavy line of white powder on top of the stainless-steel case. He bent down and snorted the powder fervidly, his eyes closed. He shoved the small bag back into his pocket, and waited.

Standing leaning against the red bathroom stall wall, head tilted back and his eyes closed, he fidgeted with his fingers restlessly, eager for the silence to be returned to him as the drug swept through his system. He rubbed his left ring finger anxiously; his right fingers scraping agitatedly around a pale ring-mark in an unconscious repeated gesture of unease.

Gradually, the voices faded away and he melted back into the comforting silence that always surrounded him. The shaking stopped. Heero released a sigh of relief and slid down against the red partition until he was sitting on the floor between the toilet and the red door. Drawing his knees up to his chest, he remained seated there for a small eternity, his eyes closed... enjoying the silence.

He didn't notice, but his right thumb and index finger were still wrapped tightly around the whitish ring-mark on his left hand, surrounding it and applying the familiar pressure instead of the missing ring.

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During the day the Martian skies were a yellow-brown color. The high-noon sun blazed above the hot red desert as Heero's blue big-rig sped down the MC-28. The thirty-two-year-old veteran sat at the wheel wearing the same blue jeans, dirty white tee and gray baseball cap from the day before. The barren red landscape and butterscotch sky reflected on his mirrored aviator sunglasses as he continued his trip towards the farthest town in Dao Villas.

It was hot. His tanned skinned – a result of months of driving under the burning Martian sun – was moist; a thin sheen of sweat coated his muscular arms as they held the large steering wheel tightly. The AC was working full-blast, but the strong rays of sunlight pouring in through the cab windows were giving it a real run for its money. Beads of sweat accumulated underneath Heero's thick beard, itching badly. He scratched under his chin and wiped the moisture from the frizzy facial hair. He hadn't planned on growing a beard, certainly not as long as the one sporting from his face, but he never took the time so shave in the morning (he didn't see the point), so it just kept on growing. Duo would have probably called it a testament to his madness, but he should be the one to talk! The man had let his hair grow untrimmed for over _twenty years_ before finally cutting the ridiculously long rope of hair dangling over his backside – so there!

Perspiration shone on his brow; his unruly bangs were crumpled under his trucker cap, wet and plastered over his forehead. He raised his hat up a bit, wiped a hand through his messy hair to clear away the sweat and then put his cap back down. It was too damn hot.

"WARNING," The female computer voice spoke up after an urgent beep; "SURFACE TEMPERATURE AND RADIATION LEVELS EXCEED D.O.T SAFETY REGULATIONS BY. _FIVE. POINT._ _THREE_. PERCENT. PLEASE STOP THE VEHICLE AND ACTIVATE SHIELDING."

Unable to hear the computer, Heero kept driving. His numb gaze was directed at the road, his vision losing focus after staring at the unchanging scenery for so long. Therefore, he also failed to see the red words flashing frantically on the in-dash display: **WARNING! RADIATION ALERT! CAB TEMP RISING!**

Watching the endless stretch of road and red desert ahead through bleary eyes, Heero's mind was someplace far away, in another time and place. His eyes were looking out at the Martian wilderness, but his mind was seeing Earth, thinking back to a different time he had spent behind the windshield of a large truck.

It was a month or so after he had self-detonated his Gundam in Siberia. Trowa and he were driving across Western Europe in a large rig carrying the Heavyarms Gundam on its lengthy flatbed. He was still recovering from grave injuries and so he had spent most of his days sitting on the passenger's side seat, looking out at the beautiful green scenery or taking long naps. Trowa did all of the driving, taking the back roads to avoid detection. For about a week they traveled from France through Switzerland to Sicily as he sought out every living relative of Marshal Noventa – an avid advocate of peace and a man he had wrongfully killed after being tricked by OZ to shoot the man's plane down.

He began his quest for retribution with Noventa's granddaughter – a young blonde French girl with pretty green eyes who went by the name of Sylvia. Standing by her grandfather's grave in Marseille, he had put his life in her hands – giving her his gun and asking for her verdict. He had hoped that the anger and grief he had inflicted on her family and any regret lingering unfulfilled in the Marshal's soul could be somewhat eased if Sylvia pulled the trigger. His hopes were unrequited. She had called him a coward, sparing his pathetic life while condemning him with her tears. She accused him of trying to take the easy way out, but he didn't know what else to do besides die at her hands. All he ever had was his life... what more could he possibly give her? What more could he do to make amends for taking a life far worthier than his own?

Sylvia refused to offer him what he sought, so he had moved on to the next family member. For days he had done nothing but look out the window of a large truck, his sore eyes hungrily drinking the spectacular sights of the Western European countryside: great forested mountain ranges, vast green meadows, babbling brooks at the side of the road, lakes, rivers, valleys and rustic villages... wonders to his Colony-born eyes. It was a time spent in perfect silence; Trowa and he never exchanged a word. Trowa only learned his name because he had overheard him introducing himself to Sylvia Noventa.

For the first time in his fast-and-furious life, he could simply sit back and enjoy some much needed downtime; days of blissful silence in the midst of chaos and war. There, in the cabin of that truck, he had found a place where he could hide away in silence, just the whirring of the engine and the sound of his breath lulling him into a rare soothing state.

It was a time spent brooding, contemplating; rearranging his disordered soul. The moral wounds he had suffered went far deeper than mere injured flesh and fractured bones. His body was weak, recuperating, but his heart was even weaker. He could not find his resolve to return into the fight. He didn't see the point. Ever since he took that plane down he felt more like a rouge killer than a soldier fighting for a just cause. He had screwed up, singlehandedly obliterating any chance of peace and aided OZ in manipulating the Alliance to declare war on the Colonies. He had played right into the enemy's hands, taking a life that could have saved millions. He was so sorry for the dreams he had been forced to silence, but it wasn't enough. He deserved to die for his mistake.

Trowa understood. He spent days behind the wheel of a truck, taking him from village to village, visiting eleven households in total [[4]], seeking the Noventas' absolution. At their last stop, he met with the Marshal's wife in Sicily. The old woman was so overwhelmed by his unexpected visit that she didn't offer him much of her hospitality. They were shown out just as soon as they got there. He didn't find forgiveness for his mistake, but apparently, he did find understanding.

Months later, when he met with Relena again in Sanc after Trowa went missing, she gave him a letter Mrs. Noventa wrote to him after he left Sicily. She wrote about how his sudden visit had caught her off-guard and that was why she wasn't able to say what she truly felt. She asked him to stop tormenting himself for his mistake. She wrote about how he was fighting for what her late husband believed in and how she appreciated his genuine wish for peace. She told him that he was still young and that he shouldn't let the mistakes of his past dictate his whole life. She hoped that he will build himself a new future, away from the battlefield, away from blood and war. She signed the letter_ "to my dear friend"_ and wished him nothing but the best.

He had spent the last fifteen years trying to do as she said; it was his only way to amend his mistake without being accused of being a coward. The Noventas didn't accept his death as penance; perhaps his life will be acceptable retribution. It was the only way he could think of to justify his sins. He had tried to kill himself so many times, whether passively or actively seeking his own demise, but prevailed every time. Death wasn't his answer; life was. Problem is, that – just like dying – he wasn't very good at living either.

Radiation levels were still rising in a dangerous incline. The in-dash display was flashing frantically, but Heero was lost in thought, completely unaware.

"WARNING," the computer beeped in urgency; "DRIVER UNRESPONSIVE. COMPUTER OVERRIDE IN: TEN... NINE... EIGHT..."

Ignorant of the verbal countdown, Heero kept driving.

"...FIVE. FOUR. THREE. TWO... ONE."

The computer cut out the engine. The truck went wild, brakes and gear unresponsive. Taken by complete surprise, Heero jumped at the steering wheel, clutching it tightly as he fought to bring the massive 18-wheeler under control; it was veering off the road at a staggering speed, the Skateboard swinging wildly behind it. The truck was equipped with air brakes that operated with pressurized air; they required the engine to power a pump, but didn't go out immediately once the engine was off. It was a helpful safety feature and when air pressure dropped, the vehicle would slowly break to a halt. Still, the brakes could not be operated manually, as there was no mechanical link between the pedal and the brakes, so Heero had no choice but to keep the truck steady until the barreling big-rig slowed down on its own. Leaning over the steering wheel, nearly standing, his arms strained to hold it in place, taunt muscles stretching under sweaty tanned skin.

A few tense minutes later, the blue truck came to a stop in the middle of the empty highway. The second it was no longer moving, the computer switched to radiation-protocol and brought down heavy metal shielding over the cab windows. The cab fell dark; the only illumination source remaining was the dim glow of the in-dash screen flashing: **SOLAR-STORM**. It cast a faint halo on Heero's face. Lines of data scrolled at the bottom of the screen, showing outside temperature, radiation levels and the weather forecast, estimating T-minus 2 hours until the storm passes.

Seated in darkness, Heero took off his sunglasses. He sighed and slumped back into the driver's seat, staring numbly at the metal-blind-covered windshield. In a moment of sudden lucidness, he wondered if he had bothered checking the weather forecast before going on the road. He couldn't recall. He was too high last night, trying to drive the Voices away. He probably never considered checking... Shit. No wonder the road was empty.

It was so hot. Without the engine on, the AC wasn't as affective. The electrical systems kept life-support on, but air circulation was minimal when the engine was off. He was trapped inside an overheating metal cage. That was what happened when drivers went on the MC-28 without checking the weather first.

Minutes ticked by slowly. Heero sat drenched in his own sweat, staring unseeingly at the sheltered windshield. His face was flushed, unbearably hot; sweat dripped from his thick beard. He took off his hat and ruffled his sweaty hair. His breath came out shallow and uneven. His heart raced, pumping thick sluggish blood through his burning veins. He blinked, sweat trickling onto his thick eyelashes. His eyes fell on a bottle of water lying under the passenger's seat. He bent over to pick it up and then gulped a few mouthfuls. He held the large bottle between his legs and resumed staring at the metal-cased window. Lost in thought, he sat there and sipped water slowly out the bottle every now and then. He waited to see whether his foolishness will result in death by heat stroke.

Sylvia Noventa called him a coward for putting his life in her hands, asking for death. As fate would have it, he had later put himself in the hands of death, asking for life. He had spent his life away from the battlefield with a man who self-proclaimed himself as "Death". Funny how that happened. He never thought he'd fall for anyone, let alone another man, but Duo was a force to be reckoned with; he was utterly irresistible to women and men alike. Heero didn't think he could ever be attracted to other men; Duo was an exception. His sprightly demeanor, the sheer _heat _he radiated when breezing into a room, the warmth of his smile and the dark sarcasm gleaming in his vibrant blue eyes were all part of this tantalizing charm. Duo had a way of working himself into someone's heart with ease, and for some reason he had set his sights on _his_ heart from the very beginning. Then a mere teenage boy, Heero had found this attraction impossible to resist. That that Duo Maxwell chose him out of all people was the single most wonderful thing that has ever happened to him; he would have been a fool to resist it. Even as the once so-called _Perfect Soldier, _he had realized that it was a simple matter of making the right assessment: Duo made him better, in every way. Resistance was redundant. After the war ended, he took the plunge with Duo wholeheartedly.

His friend and lover of fifteen years became his salvation, his atonement. Duo was his death, a death that meant life – the life commanded upon him by Mrs. Noventa's letter; to him, those words were the last will and testament of the man he had murdered in cold blood. He had spent the last fifteen years trying to live up to those words, building himself a life outside the battlefield, trying to discard the mistakes of his past and move on to a better future. It was tremendous endeavor; one he was still struggling to fulfill.

_Bang!_

Something hard beat against the truck; a hollow metallic knocking sound coming from outside the cab. Heero jerked, startled by the sudden noise. It never even occurred to him that he shouldn't be hearing it. He whirled his head aside in the direction sound, his eyes wide with alarm.

A slow metallic creaking vibrated through the cabin. Someone was prying the metal casing off the truck windows... trying to get in.

No; that couldn't be right. No one was trying to get in. The banging wasn't real. He couldn't hear, so it couldn't be real. His self-inflicted disability kept him in check. It made it possible to distinguish reality from madness. It wasn't real.

_Bang! Bang Bang!_ The metallic thuds roared in his ears. They sure sounded real...

No; they weren't real. They couldn't be...

_Bang, bang, bang… Scrape, scrape, scrape..._

The banging was followed by quiet scarping sounds. There was someone out there!

No, no! No one could survive out there, certainly not during a solar storm!

But what if they could?

[WHAT IF THEY'RE WEARING A PROTECTIVE SUIT?] One voice suggested.

{THEY KNOW YOU'RE TRAPPED} Another one agreed.

(THEY'RE HERE FOR YOU) A third confirmed.

More banging, louder this time. Metal creaking and groaning.

It was just the hull heating up, metal expanding. It had to be.

**_BANG! BANG! BANG!_**

Heero pushed the button that locked the truck's doors. He huddled in his seat, legs drawn up to his chest and hugging his knees, panting shallowly, distressed. He reached a shaking hand into his jeans' pocket and pulled out the small plastic zip-lock bag. He opened it and scooped some white powder with a trembling finger. He sniffed it sharply and then took another scoop. He inhaled it too and closed his eyes, waiting anxiously for the silence that would follow.

It didn't.

_Bang... Bang... Bang..._ The thudding continued.

Someone was still trying to get in.

Or it could be someone knocking...

Or he could be experiencing a heat stroke; delirium.

Or it could be _them_.

[IT_ IS_ THEM] The voices assured him. The monsters. The nightmares living under his bed. Creatures that existed in perfect hiding... unseen predators always lurking behind his back... manifestation of his deepest, most primal childhood fears.

_BANG!_

More banging. The cab shook. It could just be the wind...

(NO) One of the voices countered; (IT'S _THEM_)

{THEY'RE HERE!}

Who were _"they"_?! He didn't really know. All he knew was that someone was always out to get him. Duo said it wasn't true. He said that it was only his illness that made him see imaginary connections in everything. They'd get this junk-mail in their apartment mailbox and he would tie it in with something someone said to him 15 years ago. He thought that everyone in five Lagrange points knew him and of course loathed him. _"They"_ tried to run him out of the Colony on a regular basis. _"They"_ knew what he was really like... _"They"_ knew all of the things he had done and _"They"_ were set out to punish him.

**_Bang! Bang! Bang!_**

No one was out there, Heero kept telling himself like Duo would have wanted him to do, but he was shaking nonetheless. That the entire threat existed solely in his head wasn't just one possible explanation, but the most plausible one of all. He knew _"They"_ weren't real, but their existence was irrelevant. The mere presence of fear was sufficient proof of the monsters' existence at that very moment. He could reason that they weren't real all day long and still feel terrified of them at the same time. Emotion and reason were not opposites; rather, each existed in its own separate plain. The mere presence of monsters couldn't justify his fear, because that would imply their absence removed the justification, and he was always afraid. He will never feel safe anywhere, not even locked securely inside of a heavily fortified truck.

Duo said fear was okay; that it was nothing of which to be ashamed. He said that fear was what helped people to discover courage. After all, courage won't be necessary in the absence of fear, and kindness couldn't exist without either of them. Duo said that his fears made his heart grow bigger. Heero felt that they made him _small_. He hated being afraid. He hated hearing these voices... He longed for the silence; that thick, warm and pleasant silence he felt sitting in that truck beside Trowa... so quiet, so peaceful. Just miles and miles of green landscape and the promise of forgiveness in the horizon. Now, all was lost. There was no peace, no forgiveness and no hope... only madness.

Without even noticing, he was rubbing the pale ring-mark around his left ring finger again. It helped calm him down somewhat. It helped, because he was thinking of Duo.

He didn't have to feel so crazy when Duo was around. Duo always made sure he took his medication. Over the years Duo had come to know the signs of impending "episodes" and has become adept at helping Heero head them off. But Duo was gone. He left.

[WHERE?] One voice wondered.

_I don't know,_ he answered inside his own head;_ he just left._

{WHY?} Another voice inquired curiously.

_I don't know,_ he sighed;_ He just did. Duo left me._

(WHEN?) A third one intervened.

_I don't know. Can't remember. He just left one day..._

[WHERE?] The first repeated its question.

_I don't know! He just did, okay!?_

{WHY?} The second wanted to know. They didn't believe him!

_I... I don't remember. I don't know. He said... something... _

(WHAT?) The third demanded skeptically.

_I don't know. Something about... I... I can't recall. He left to do something..._

Just a couple of hours, Duo had promised, but Heero waited for what felt like forever and Duo didn't come back home like he said he would. He tried to take his pills like he promised he would, but the Voices told him not to, so he stopped, unsure of who to trust. The Voices said Duo was drugging him on purpose. They said he shouldn't be trusted. They said Duo left him. After almost two decades together – Duo left him. He left him at the mercy of the monsters in his head...

[MAYBE HE'S COME BACK] The first voice suggested.

{YOU SHOULD OPEN THE DOOR FOR HIM} The second agreed.

(LET HIM IN) The third concurred.

Yes; maybe he should. Maybe it wasn't the monsters... maybe it was Duo coming back for him. He wanted Duo to find him already. He's been away from home for so long... he was lost. He didn't know how to come back. He wanted Duo to come get him. He didn't know his way home... he was lost without Duo. All he knew how to do was keep running, and the more he ran the more he had gotten lost and now he didn't know which way to turn anymore.

[YOU SHOULD LOWER THE SHIELDING] The Voices said, muttering amongst themselves in agreement.

{LET HIM IN}

(HE'LL TAKE YOU HOME)

Home... yes. He wanted to go home... back to Duo, back to their life together... back to the pleasant silence that guarded his sanity. Duo knew what was real and what wasn't. Duo kept him safe, kept him sane. He made the Voices go away. He knew how to talk sense into him, discrediting what the Voices said, methodically dissecting the madness they tried to instill in him. No one could out-talk or outsmart Duo; the Voices were helpless against him. Whatever they said, Duo countered them effortlessly. It was easier to listen to Duo; he made sense and he made him see that the Voices didn't. But now Duo wasn't here and nothing made sense anymore. He had no one else to listen to beside the Voices shrieking in his ears, drilling senseless panic into his heart.

[WAIT MUCH LONGER AND THE MONSTERS WILL GET IN] They said.

{BETTER OPEN THE DOOR AND LET DUO IN BEFORE THEY COME}

(HE'S WAITING FOR YOU)

Heero unlocked the doors. If he was the one to open them, it will be Duo waiting on the other side. If he waited for whatever it was to get in on its own, it will be the monsters. He had to act first.

"WARNING," the female computer voice notified when he tried to override the radiation-mode command; "SURFACE TEMPERATURE AND RADIATION EXCEED SAFETY LEVELS BY. _THIRTY. FIVE. PERCENT._" The same words flashed boldly on the in-dash screen as Heero's fingers worked the controls to override the shutdown command. He ignored the warning and hacked into the system, instructing the computer to open the anti-radiation blinds.

"WARNING," the computer voice advised; "OPENING PARTITIONS WILL CAUSE A. _TWENTY. FIVE. PERCENT._ INCREASE IN CABIN TEMPERATURE AND RADIATION LEVEL. PROLONGED EXPOSURE – FATAL."

Heero opened them anyway. Slowly, the metallic sliding-doors opened and the cab filled with blinding hot white light.

"WARNING," the monotonous female voice alerted; "TEMPERATURE AND RADIATION LEVELS RISING. FATAL EXPOSURE IN. _TEN._ MINUTES."

Heero bent over the dashboard to have a close look through the windshield. He squinted against the bright light, scanning the empty road and red desert around him. He couldn't see anyone; there was not a car or person in sight.

Duo had to be out there. He had to be!

He reached to open the driver's door.

"WARNING," the computer beeped; "AIR-PRESSURE COMPROMISED."

Heero couldn't hear it. His hand began pulling the handle that would open the door.

"WARNING," the flat female voice called; "CODE RED. DRIVER DISPLAYS SELF-HARMING BEHAVIOR. INITIATING PRECAUTIONS."

The doors locked. A low hissing sound could have been heard, if Heero was capable of hearing it, as a small tube began releasing invisible gas into the cabin. Heero couldn't hear it, but he could smell it. He panicked. Anxious to get out, he rattled the door handle forcefully, banging against the burning-hot window. He had to get out!

[THEY'RE ONTO YOU] The Voices snickered in his head.

The radiation-shielding closed over the windows. The cab fell dark. He was going to pass out...

{GAME OVER} The Voices laughed.

Heero collapsed against the seat, losing consciousness.

(YOU'RE DEAD!)

**To be continued in Part 2: Reason**

* * *

[1] MC-28 is the area-code in the atlas of Mars. The area is one of NASA's possible locations for a settlement site. It is of great exobiology interest because of the possibility of sustained hydrothermal activity and associated mineralization, along with possibility of groundwater.

[2] Not my dumb idea. This was the name of the Martian Capital in Frozen Teardrop.

[3] Well, at least in the US... (See here for more).

[4] As seen in Trowa's list in Episode #15: "To The Battleground Antarctica".


	2. Part 2: Reason

**Endless Silence**

**Part 2: Reason**

_'How could you? How!?'_

Sylvia Noventa's cries echoed in his head.

_'You're such a coward! You just want to take the easy way out of this!'_

_'You coward!'_

**_'COWARD!'_**

_'A wrong turn in the past can be painful for anyone,'_ Sylvia's grandmother wrote to him;_ 'but you're still young! I hope you'll think about building a new future.'_

_'Yanno,'_ Duo said; _'They approve gay-marriage on L1.'_

_'So?' _he had muttered back, uninterested.

_'Do I haffta spell it out for ya?'_

_'After __**ten years**__ you suddenly need a wedding ring?'_ he had marveled disdainfully.

Duo grinned that devilishly handsome smile of his; that damn irresistible grin that would even allow him to get away with murder. _'Maybe I want you to make an honest man outta me...'_

_'I just got __**canned**__,'_ he had muttered, snarling nastily;_ 'I can't afford a fucking ring.'_

Duo scoffed dismissively. _'Fuck that. Stop making excuses. We're getting married and that' final, unless you're too much of a coward...'_

_'You coward!' _Sylvia accused, crying; _'Coward!'_

_'I hope you'll think about building a new future…'_

_'You don't want to marry me...'_ He sighed.

_'Fuck yeah, I do!'_ Duo insisted.

_'I'm sick.'_

_'So let me promise you in sickness and in health 'til death do us part and all that shit. Nothing fancy... just a Judge of the Peace and a few signatures and I'm all yours forever and ever. You, me and all those crazy voices talking in your head...'_ Duo tried to joke, though it wasn't the least bit funny.

_'Does it really matter to you if we're married or not?' _he had asked in a pained voice, not seeing the need in this pointless exercise.

_'Kinda does... yeah,'_ Duo had mumbled, fiddling with his fingers sheepishly as he often did when confessing how important his faith was to him, even though he spent most of his time trying to deny it. And when something was important to Duo, it was important to him; it was as simple as that.

_'Quatre and Trowa can return the favor and be our witnesses,'_ Duo had offered with a soft smile, trying to convince him even though he had already decided to oblige his lover and take his hand in marriage;_ 'It will only take a few minutes... be over before you know it. What do you say? Ready to tie the knot or what?'_

He had said 'yes', because there was simply no saying 'no' to Duo. They got married on L1 and got a small apartment in one of the Cluster's outer colonies. Duo kept working for Preventer, riding a desk so he could stay close to home, while Heero tried to keep from going utterly insane, finding ways to keep busy while staying at home. He took some online academic courses, trying to keep his mind sharp, but as the months went by his illness only got worse.

Six months after they were married, he had pierced his own ears using a sharp instrument, trying to make the Voices stop. Duo found him lying unconscious on the living room floor once he came back home from work, his head resting in a pool of blood. They didn't talk much after that. Duo went on unpaid leave of absence and stayed home with him for a while even when all he had wanted was to be left alone.

_'In sickness and in health,'_ Duo kept reminding him; _'I'm not giving up on you.'_

He tried, he really did... for Duo. It wasn't so bad as long as he made sure to take his medication. The pills allowed him to be himself again. Duo even convinced him to put on a hearing aid. His right ear – the first one he had pierced – was totally deaf; the eardrum damaged beyond salvaging. His left ear however, being the second one he had pierced – already in pain and therefore not as forceful – could still pick up sounds with the proper technological aid. He hated it, hearing. He took off the hearing aid every chance he got. But his husband was so ecstatic that they could talk again, _really _talk, so he only put it on for Duo; his was the only voice Heero was willing to hear.

Things got a bit better afterwards. They even talked about how he should go back to work, feel useful again. They agreed that if he went another two months without an "episode", then they'd start searching for a job. If only it was that easy...

A lifelong illness, paranoid schizophrenia required constant treatment and neuroleptics to allow a person to have a relatively stable and normal lifestyle, but like many paranoid-schizophrenics, he was unable to accept his condition and often refused treatment. He'd secretly throw the pills away after pretending to have swallowed them under Duo's watchful eyes. Not soon after the Voices would return and he would get lost... suddenly finding himself away from home. Just like today. He didn't know where he was waking up to; all he knew was that it wasn't home. It smelled like a hospital.

Heero opened his eyes, blinking groggily against a bright light. He looked numbly at the room around him; definitely a hospital.

His eyes fell on a figure sitting by his bed: Duo. The handsome young man was sitting on a rickety plastic chair, looking at him with a pair of worried cobalt blue eyes shimmering sadly under the room's bright fluorescent light. His youthful features were pale, dark stains under his eyes. His short chestnut-brown hair (he had finally cut off his trademark braid the day they got married, saying he was turning over a new leaf) seemed strangely lifeless, matted over his head. Pale and gray as a ghost, his husband looked like he had been put through the wringer one time too many. Heero cast his gaze down shamefully. He knew it was his fault.

"How long?" he asked, hopefully whispering, and glanced guiltily up at Duo so he could read the man's lips.

_'Five months,'_ they formed the words, and he could tell Duo was sighing. _'That's the longest you ever went AWOL on me,'_ he accused. He seemed sad; abandoned and betrayed.

"I'm sorry," Heero mumbled, abashed. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

_'I said I'll be back in __**two**__ hours,' _Duo's lips formed the angry words; his expression furious, cobalt eyes burning. Heero knew him well enough to tell which words he was emphasizing angrily.

_'Two __**freakin' **__hours, Heero! I come home and you're gone again. Do you have any idea how __**horrifying**__ that is?!'_

"I'm sorry," was all he could say, his eyes downcast. He stared wretchedly at his bed and then glanced up at his husband, an apology in his eyes.

_'Fuck Heero...'_ Duo seemed more despaired than angry; _'I can't even go out to get the __**groceries**__ without worrying that you'd do something stupid? What the Hell were you thinking running off like that?!'_

"I'm sorry, Duo... I tried, but I... I was alone and They... You left... You left me and They... They started talking to me again..."

He could have been shouting out the words, he didn't know. All he knew was that he was sobbing them out, crying brokenly.

"Why did you leave me, Duo?" He looked up at his husband, tears soaking his bearded face, eye pleading for answers.

_'In sickness and in health, Heero... 'til death do us part. I'll never leave you,'_ Duo said, his lips forming the same mantra they always did. _'You know I won't. You should have called me the moment you started hearing them again,'_ he added, his face softening. _'I would have come right back home.'_

"I couldn't..." he whispered with trembling lips; "I couldn't call you..."

_'Why not?'_

"You wouldn't have answered..."

_'Is that what the voices told you?'_ Duo seemed pissed.

"No..." he wept, "I knew you weren't there... and when you were... when you came back... they said you weren't real... you couldn't be..."

Duo's expression seemed hurt._ 'And you believed them?'_

"I have to believe them!" he cried out hopelessly.

_'Why?'_ Duo asked, his blue eyes wounded.

"Because this _can't_ be real..." Heero whispered miserably, shaking his head.

_'Why!' _Duo was clearly offended; _'Because __**They**__ said so?'_

"No..." Heero mumbled and bowed his head down sorrowfully, sniffling. "Because you left me..." he whispered, more tears overflowing. He turned back to face his husband, tears dripping onto his wild beard. "You can't be real, Duo, because you died. You're dead. You're not real. Death _did_ do us part... it's over... you're gone. You died, Duo... you're dead!"

And that was when Heero woke up for real, sobbing into his pillow. His despaired cries were loud, hurting, but he could not hear his own heartbroken wails. He turned on his side, hospital sheets tangling around his aching body, and buried his face in the tear-soaked pillow. His body quaked with sobs and whimpers. He clutched the blanket to his heart, crying out the pain of reality seeping in and his sanity being restored.

Towering over his narrow hospital bed, was an IV pole and a bag filled with clear fluids dripping reason back into his veins through a thin tube.

A door opened somewhere behind him. He couldn't see or hear it. Lost in a world of pain, he lay curled on the bed and cried.

A pair of feminine hands wrapped around him slowly, gently. He tensed and fell silent, a sob still lodged in his throat. He felt the bed shift as someone climbed behind him, a warm body pressing against his own through the blanket. The arms around him tightened, embracing him closely. He held his breath, eyes wide. A hand caressed his hair, soothing. His vision focused on the delicate white hand resting in front of him on the moist pillow. His tearful Prussian blue eyes studied the frail hand quietly, taking note of the well-manicured fingers and the delicate golden band around the fourth left finger.

The hand moved, reaching for his own hand which was resting under the pillow; the same hand with the pale ring-mark around the fourth digit. His companion held onto his hand tightly, entwining her pale fingers with his tanned digits. He closed his eyes, just breathing. The soft feminine hand continued caressing his hair soothingly while the other kept holding onto his trembling hand. Gradually, his sobbing subsided. He opened his eyes; they still glimmered with unshed tears. He stared ahead dully, feeling drained.

The hand caressing his hair gently slid down the side of his face, tingling against his thick beard. It covered his cheek softly, delicate and warm, and nudged his head aside lightly. He turned to face the young woman lying behind him, seeking her face. She was leaning over him, her full head of long blonde hair dangling down the sides of her delicate features. His eyes focused on her pale red lips. She was smiling wretchedly, trying to offer comfort despite her obvious pain.

_'Did you find what you were looking for?'_ her mouth formed the words slowly. Even without hearing her voice, he knew her words were whispered sadly.

He took a moment to think about it, snapshot memories flickering in his mind's eye: a red desert, miles upon miles of endless road... and the silence. Nothing but silence...

"No," he croaked, straining to force the word out of his sore throat. "No..." he added in a feeble whisper, shaking his head weakly as he lifted his gaze to meet her doleful green eyes. He stared at her miserably, defeated and shamed.

The young blonde woman squeezed his hand tightly, offering silent comfort. She ran her delicate white hand through his hair once more, gazing down at him sorrowfully. Her bright green eyes shimmered with mournful tears.

_'I'll take you home, okay?' _He watched her lips form the words and nodded, looking away uneasily. He rested his aching head on the tear-soaked pillow, closed his eyes and concentrated on the feeling of her fingers moving through his messy hair. He exhaled a deep breath, fighting back the tears stinging behind his closed eyelids. Yes, he was ready to go home now.

* * *

Home was a beautiful 19th Century French cottage in the outskirts of Marseille, overlooking the turquoise blue waters of the Mediterranean Sea. His bedroom was a sunny attic-room on the second floor, where a large window offered a stunning view of the bay. It wasn't a large room; just a single bed in the center, covered by a duvet with a beautiful pattern of azure roses and chains of florals over a white background; a rustic French dresser and a small wardrobe. All were beautifully handcrafted, adding to the rural, pristine and a raw feel of the snug room.

A turquoise-blue shelf hung over the antiquated dresser in front of the bed. Three items rested on it: a small black urn, a single red rose in a tiny glass vase and a silver-framed photo of the picture Duo insisted they take on their wedding day. They were both wearing black suits and ties, standing in front of the L1 courthouse as Quatre took the picture. Duo was his typically charming self; a wide smile on his handsome face and his arm wrapped around his newlywed husband, while he on his part did his best not to flinch or look intimidating while trying not to glare at the camera (he hated having his picture taken!). Duo always joked that he looked like he fighting off a sneeze, but it was their one and only wedding photo, so his husband had framed it anyway and put it on the dresser in their bedroom back on L1; a small shrine to their legally-binding relations. Now, it was part of a different shrine.

The small red flower had long wilted. It was the first thing Heero noticed when he stepped into his room after five months of absence. He always made sure to change it every few days, but he's been away for so long that the single red rose had bowed to decay, crumbling to dust.

Heero walked slowly towards the dresser and stood there in a stupor, unable to move. He stared blankly at the rose, his gaze distant and dim.

An antique pitcher and wash basin bowl set rested on top of the rustic bureau. A white clean-scented face-towel lay spread next to it and on it a set of shaving utensils and scissors. He was expected to shave his long beard, erase evidence of the past five months from his face. Heero ignored the unsubtle hint and opened the top drawer instead. Inside, among many trivial trinkets and knick-knacks (mostly Duo's, actually), lay a small decorative wooden box. He reached for it carefully and placed it on top of the dresser, pushing the drawer close with his chest as he leaned closer. He stared at the box for a moment, then took a deep breath and opened it.

There were two small items inside: his fragile hearing aid, and a plain golden wedding ring. He put the golden wedding ring on slowly, his hand trembling slightly as he slid the cool metal over his finger, back where it belonged. He stared at his hand, his numb blue eyes focused on the ring until his vision blurred.

_Now_ he was home.

He turned to the window at his side and opened it wide. He leaned outside into the warm morning sun and gazed at the view spreading before his eyes. The house he lived in sat on a small hill overlooking the Old Port, giving him a postcard-perfect view of the city: crowded streets, ancient buildings and narrow roads; seagulls flying across the sunny blue sky, cars driving down busy boulevards, white sailboats cruising the harbor leisurely... So many people, so much movement... the world was so full of life. He couldn't hear any of it, but it still felt so noisy. It was as if he could hear the hectic ambience just by looking at it.

Marseille was a far cry from the barren red plains he had spent five months looking at through a truck's windshield. The oldest and second-biggest city in France, it was where ancient tenements, fishermen's cottages, Haussmannian boulevards, Belle Epoque villas and modern tower blocks alternated with docks, beaches and tiny coves. Some 25 miles of seaboard stretched across the city's maritime border. Its streets were colorful and swarming with traffic and people. From its vibrant city markets, to the Panier area in the Old City and the Old Harbor, to the natural fjords where large cliffs fell into the sea and the Corniche road winded along the coastline... the bustling city of Marseille had a lot to offer to the eye of the beholder.

But there was no silence here; no peace. Heero stepped away from the window and closed it behind him as though to shut the sound out. He could still hear it though; his mind buzzed with unpleasant clamor. He missed space... it was quiet there. Still, this was home now. This was the life he had chosen; the only life he was capable of living now that Duo was gone.

He turned back to the dresser behind him, his eyes falling on an item hanging on the wooden wall between the bureau and the small memorial he had made for his late husband: it was an A4 sized blue frame holding a handwritten document, one he would read each time he came back home after one of his "episodes". It was written in his own handwriting using a blue ball pen. He remembered jotting down the words in tears, his hand trembling against the page. His eyes skimmed over the letter meticulously, absorbing every word as though committing Holy Scripture into memory:

_April 7, MC-0010_

_Dear Ms. Noventa:_

_I would have liked to write this letter to your grandmother, but I understand that she passed away years ago. My deepest condolences._

_You probably remember me. I imagine that not many people have placed a gun in your hand and asked you to kill them. I'm probably the only fool to have done you such wrong. Please accept my sincere apology. I was once a foolish and ignorant boy who had no desire to grow up to be a man._

_After our brief encounter in Marseille, I went to see your grandmother in Sicily. She refused to meet with me, but she did write me a letter afterwards, and somehow it had found its way to me months later through Ms. Relena Darlian._

_I wanted you to know that your grandmother's letter has changed my life. I probably should have written these words to her while she was still alive and let her know that she has offered me something no one ever has: a future. Her forgiveness entitled me of a life after I had condemned myself dead-man-walking. Her absolution allowed me a life once I had laid down my arms. I am forever grateful for that. Her kind words made me feel eligible of love and so much more. I realize that my life must be of little interest to you, so I will not bore you with details._

_Why am I writing you this letter after all these years? Honestly, I'm not sure. Maybe because I feel that my life has lost all meaning. Maybe because I need your permission to end it. I live because I owe your family a great debt, but I fear that I cannot endure this punishment any longer. Being as you are the Marshal's only living relative, I am asking for your pardon._

_I have lost my husband recently. He died. It was a quick death, sudden and painless. He went out for groceries one day and never came back. The doctors couldn't explain why his heart suddenly failed him at 31._

_My friend and lover of almost 15 years is gone. He was my life, and now he's gone. I'm alone, I'm sick and I'm miserable. I don't want to live anymore, but I can't end this pain because my life isn't my own... I gave it to your grandmother as penance for killing her husband, your grandfather._

_My request is selfish, I know. Here I am suffering the same dark relentless grief I once caused your grandmother, yet I dare ask to be relieved of this hell while I never could relieve your grandmother's pain. It shames me, but I have nowhere else to turn. You are my only way out._

_Duo was my life, my purpose - my everything. He kept me going, kept me safe, protecting me from myself. I had done nothing in my life to deserve him, yet he had devoted everything to my wellbeing, especially after I got sick. He made everything better, made my life worth living even as my sanity crumbled around me. Now he's gone and I'm left with nothing but a life of struggles against my own mind. This damn disease is all I have left._

_You must wonder why I can't just kill myself without dragging you into this. I could. There are constant voices in my head telling me that I should do it, no one would even care. I could do it right now and you'd be none the wise, but I can't. Committing suicide means committing yet another sin against your grandmother, against the woman who told me to live. I'd hate it to be my legacy, because then it would become part of your grandmother's legacy as well. I've made it this far thanks to your grandmother and I don't want to tarnish this accomplishment by taking the easy way out. You taught me that, remember?_

_Once again I ask you to understand that I am not trying to make you suffer. Ask me to live to spare your conscience, and I will carry on. Allow me to die to ease your anger, and I will thank you for it. My life is in your hands once more. Whatever the verdict, I will accept it. All I ask is that you consider my request instead of dismissing this letter lightly._

_As you wish..._

_Heero Yuy_

Her answer was written right under where he had signed his name. She had mailed it back to him as-is, her wishes as straightforward as they possibly could be:

_Live life._

_Sylvia_

It was their signed contract; a testament he had hung on his bedroom wall to remind him of his life sentence. He had placed his life in her hands, and she took him up on his offer, whether out of pity or out of spite, he never asked. All he knew was that she obligated him to live, either as an act of mercy, or a gesture towards her deceased grandparents. Whatever the reason, Sylvia Noventa has taken it upon herself to see that he will keep his word and live the life her late grandmother had wished for him. It was both a punishment and a gift. Some days he was grateful; on others he hated her for binding him to this life when all he wanted was to join his late husband in death.

They married soon after he moved into her house on Earth; "Le Veuf Brisé" ("The Shattered Widower") and "La Blonde Imprudente" ("The Imprudent Blonde") was what their nosy neighbors called them. Heero supposed there was some truth to it. They weren't in love; they both clearly maintained that it was simply a marriage of convenience. Marrying Sylvia awarded him with an ESUN citizenship, allowing him to live on Earth so he could be with her, and also entitled him of the medical care and social security rights he required due to his mental illness. And, being as Sylvia worked as an attending cardiothoracic surgeon in a large hospital in Marseille, she had an excellent health insurance plan, which he was able to use once they were married. Overall, his life and second marriage were a complete sham.

Nevertheless, no amount of denial could stop him from seeing that he was getting progressively worse. His "episodes" became more and more frequent after Duo's passing and he found himself losing his battles against the Voices more often than not. Marriage was the only way Sylvia could think of to take legal guardianship over him without having to prove to the court that he was completely incapable of taking care for himself or managing his money. Most of the time, he was very capable – hence no court would ever hand him over to her – but there were times when he got lost in the madness and did more harm than good. It helped knowing he had a safety-net, someone looking after him when he wasn't capable of fending for himself. Sylvia has bounded him to this life, but in the very least, she was trying to make it bearable.

Sighing quietly, Heero tore his gaze away from the letter. His eyes fell on the washing set left for him on the dresser. He gawked at it sluggishly for a moment, and then picked up the scissors.

* * *

He walked down the wooden steps leading to the ground floor, showered, clean-shaven and dressed in clean blue jeans and a loose white shirt. His unruly brown hair was wet, his long bangs brushed up neatly. He looked like himself again, though he felt like nothing resembling his old self. His Prussian blue eyes were dead; duller than they have ever been. He was merely a husk, a ghost roaming the land of the living, bound by a woman's curse. It was a curse he had asked for, so he had no right to complain.

The snug seaside cottage in a sunny Marseille neighborhood brimmed with ebullient French country style: reclaimed wood, tiles and natural stone offered patina and familiarity, while wrought-iron details and handmade-textiles added a deliberate rustic touch that brought on the surreal feeling that the place was more than just a "house", it was a "home"... yet it wasn't. The small cottage was always flooded with bright sunshine pouring in through the large French doors leading out to a small patio full of vibrant flower-pots and miniature green trees. The kitchen, a mix of modern masquerading as old and high-tech appliances, was always filled with bowls of fresh fruit and smelled of freshly baked bread. It was like being on an endless summer vacation; it will never really feel like _home_. His real home was a small crowded apartment in the L1 Cluster, always messy and dark, but cozy and warm. It his and Duo's place... or it used to be their place. Now, it was just a memory.

Sylvia was in the kitchen making breakfast. The bright sunlight sprinkled gold in her long blonde hair as she moved around, wearing a plain white dress over her feminine curves. His wife was a fair and lovely woman, some might even say she was beautiful. Since his late teens he has known that he found both men and women attractive, but he couldn't quite go beyond acknowledging their physical appeal; nothing could ever compare to Duo. Duo was the best of both worlds, exceeding Heero's wildest dreams. Now, even though he felt a remote attraction at times, it wasn't the same. It was like food had lost its taste and shades had lost their richness... the world was a stale and barren place without Duo adding color and light to every corner. Nothing could ever rival what he once had and forever lost.

His wife was just serving a plate of bacon and eggs to the table when she noted him stepping down the stairs. She paused and looked up, her bright green eyes meeting his calm blue eyes in silent greeting. Trepidation hung heavily over the room. They still threaded on thin ice around one another even over a year of marriage. They were never comfortable in each other's presence; the tension was always there. It was the price they paid for living a lie.

Heero stood at the bottom of the staircase, still holding the banister, and stared back at his wife dazedly. He allowed her to examine him for a moment, asserting that he had cleaned up as she expected him to do (always the doctor, she maintained that a healthy façade meant a healthy mind), before nodding back to return her greeting.

Sylvia placed his breakfast on the heavy wooden dining table, and turned back to the kitchen. She opened an upper cupboard, one full of jars, jam and pickles, and pulled out a small woven basket. It was full of prescription bottles. She took out a few, yanked the caps open and spilled a few pills into her delicate white hand.

Heero took a seat at the table, watching her. She approached him with a glass of water in one hand and the colorful pills in the other. She handed them to him. He hesitated, feeling her eyes on him, and then accepted his medication. He downed the pills one by one with a few sips of water and handed her back the glass. It was all done automatically, part of a well-established routine. After he had swallowed, Heero turned to his wife and opened his mouth, tilting his head back slightly so she could look in. She shoved her finger inside without question; it tasted like onions and cheese. He felt her finger poke around a little, searching the empty cavity to make sure he hadn't tricked her and indeed swallowed his pills. He winced a little, but didn't refuse the harsh treatment; it was necessary. Once she confirmed he had swallowed the meds, Sylvia nodded in approval, took a seat at the table as well and the two had their breakfast quietly.

She must have been in a hurry to leave for work, because she ate hastily and then hurried to clear her dishes from the table before he was even halfway through his meal. He looked up, knowing she will speak to him now. It was time to inform him about her schedule, so he'll know when she was due back instead of thinking she will never return, like Duo had...

_'I'm on-call tonight,'_ he read the words off her lips_; 'I have two surgeries booked, so don't wait up,'_ she added.

Heero nodded in acknowledgment and reached for more fresh bread, smearing a generous amount of butter on the warm bun. A cardiothoracic surgeon, his wife often rebuked him for his lavish use of butter and other cholesterol-saturated foods, as well as alcohol consumption on a regular basis, but he didn't care. Duo was as healthy as a horse and he still died a sudden cardiac death. The doctors labeled it as a case of SADS [[1]], though some suggested that it might have had something to do with the strain inflicted on his heart as a young MS pilot. They said that maybe Duo's history as an underprivileged child suffering from constant malnutrition who was then forced into a quick and harsh routine that made him into a soldier, has had a negative influence on his heart. And while that sounded plausible, they never did find anything substantially wrong with Duo's heart. His husband's death was simply written off as "unascertainable". So now he was going to enjoy fatty foods and alcohol as he pleased; it didn't matter anyway. His heart was free to fail him if it so wanted; he would only be thankful for it.

Smearing more butter on his beard, Heero wondered if it was at all ironic that he had married a heart-surgeon. She will fight for his heart, save it. So yes, more butter please.

Taking a small bite from his well-buttered bread, Heero looked up. He watched his wife gather her coat, purse and car keys before hurrying to the door. She opened it swiftly, but then stopped, whirling back around. Heero paused his eating and looked up at her in question.

She was looking at him guiltily. She seemed hesitant to speak, torn somehow.

_'Why trucking, Heero?'_ she finally asked, grimacing painfully. _'You've been doing it for five months... there has to be a reason.'_

He thought about it for a moment, staring blankly at his buttered bread.

"It's what brought me to you," he answered quietly after a while. The sweet-nothings felt like a lie, but they were also true. Their first encountered occurred when Marseille was under OZ attack. An exploding Leo threw Sylvia right across an empty road. He was driving a stolen enemy military truck and nearly ran her over. He had hit the brakes so hard the truck flipped over, rolling over twice before bumping into a building wall and then falling upright against the road. His still-broken ribs had shrilled in agony, his busted arm flared with pain, but there was not a scratch on him. He had stumbled out of the vehicle steadily right before her stunned green eyes, his expression tense, nervous now that he had found her. Sylvia, then roughly sixteen years of age, had gaped at him in disbelief, stuttering as she asked who he was. So yes, riding a truck across Europe and then down the streets of Marseille was what brought him to her the first time, but he doubted that was why he allowed the Voices to convince him to try trucking for a while. His wife also seemed unconvinced.

_'Why Mars?'_ she insisted, doubtful.

"It's far," was all he had to give her. "Desolate."

_'Quiet?'_ she asked, her green eyes pained.

He nodded.

Sylvia stood at the doorway with her hand still on the doorknob, gaping at him miserably. Her pristine white hand hovered over her slightly-bulging belly for a moment, gliding over the rounded white fabric of her dress, before dropping back down sadly.

_'Were you running away?'_ She asked, her eyes gleaming sadly, hurt.

He paused, thinking. Did he run away? If he had, it wasn't intentional. Looking at her firmly, his blue eyes as hard as ice, he shook his head 'no'. He will not run away from his future; he had promised. He will not take the easy way out.

She bowed her head down briefly, just to breathe perhaps, and then looked up at him again, a tragic smile hovering faintly on her pale lips.

_'Okay,'_ she said, though she just seemed resigned; _'I'll see you tomorrow...'_ she mumbled, her lips faltering, and turned to leave, closing the door behind her.

Heero remained seated by the dining table and finished his breakfast; not even the Voices were left to keep him company. Life bustled robustly outside the kitchen window while he sipped his coffee, ignoring the richness all around him; his heart overcome by endless silence.

Up in his room, the brilliant Mediterranean sun traveled up the blue heavens, shedding soft beams of light into his empty bedroom. They shone on the smooth black surface of the urn containing Duo's ashes and over the polished silver frame incasing their wedding photo. A ray of sunshine also caught on the glass covering the framed letter hanging above the dresser, below Duo's black urn. The glass twinkled for a split second, white light gleaming over the promises signed at the bottom of the page:

_As you wish..._

_Heero Yuy_

_Live life._

_Sylvia_

* The End. *

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**Author's Note: **While I do believe that the Relena/Heero/Duo "love triangle" is GW's OT3, I was always fascinated by the prospect of a Heero/Sylvia relationship. Sadly, there are only a handful of fics out there about the couple. I'm glad I had the opportunity to add my own contribution to those few rare pieces. It was a nice break from my 1x2/2x1/1xR obsession.

Anyways, I hope you've enjoyed reading this story. Your review will be most appreciated.

Elle

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[1] In around 1 in every 20 cases of sudden cardiac death among young people under 35, no cause can be found, despite examination of the heart. The cause of death is therefore described as 'unascertainable'. This is called Sudden Arrhythmic Death Syndrome, or SADS.


End file.
